


Filling In the Blanks

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Women of the Morse Universe Fanwork Challenge, episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7282180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I’m coming down to Oxford next weekend to spend a few days with Dad. I was hoping you might be willing to meet me for coffee while I’m here – <b>without</b> Dad knowing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filling In the Blanks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perclexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perclexed/gifts).



> Perplexed, your prompt immediately got me thinking and plotting! I hope this is even something like you were hoping for.
> 
> * * *

_Dear James,_

_We haven’t met, but I feel like I know you, my dad’s talked about you so much. I’m Robert Lewis’s daughter, in case it’s not obvious. I hope you don’t mind me emailing – I took a guess at your email address from how Dad’s is formatted._

_I’m coming down to Oxford next weekend to spend a few days with Dad. I was hoping you might be willing to meet me for coffee while I’m here – **without** Dad knowing. I wanted to talk to you about recent stuff – you know, that bastard Monkford. Would that be okay?_

_Hoping you’ll say yes._

_Lyn Lewis_

* * *

James Hathaway turns out to be exactly what she’d expected, and yet at the same time nothing like what she’d expected. Her dad’s told her that he’s a posh public school type and a cleverclogs Cambridge graduate, that he nearly became a priest, and that he rows and is into music. A rowing champion, no less. Though she knew he couldn’t be full of himself; her dad would never put up with someone like that, let alone talk about him with as much… well, humour and affection as he talks about Hathaway.

So she’d expected the posh accent and immaculate manners, and isn’t too surprised when he starts off by calling her _Ms Lewis_ – though she quickly sets him straight on that. She didn’t expect the skin-tight jeans and well-worn band T-shirt over a plain long-sleeved T-shirt. Or the diffidence in the way his eyes dart downwards or to the side rather than focusing on her, and the chewed nail she notices as he lifts his coffee-cup – nervousness because she’s his boss’s daughter, or actual shyness? 

He looks younger than she expected, as well. Her father’d mentioned that he’s a couple of years older than her, but he’d also described him as sometimes over-serious and prematurely middle-aged. This man looks as if he’s barely started shaving.

But she’s not here, in this independent café on a side–street away from the bustling centre of Oxford, to satisfy her curiosity about her father’s sergeant, though she has wanted to meet him ever since her dad started sounding as if he’s intrigued by this oddity who asked to be paired up with him. She needs information, answers to questions she’d never ask her dad. He’s been through enough grief, and is still grieving – she won’t add to it by asking him to relive it yet again.

She’d wanted to contact James while she was in Oxford for Monkford’s sentencing, but the ordeal had been far more traumatic than she’d expected. There was no way she could have coped with talking with a stranger about the day her mum died, not then. It’s not even going to be easy now.

Lyn sets her mug on the table, taking a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you about Monkford, James.”

 _James_. That’s what he prefers, according to her dad. Fits with the public-school accent, of course. She can’t see someone like this bloke going by Jim or Jimmy. 

“So your email said.” His tone is oddly neutral. “There’s not much I can say. He pleaded guilty to manslaughter and got five years, but you know that.”

“I was at the sentencing.” She sighs. “If all I wanted were the headlines, I’d have read the Oxford Mail online. My dad said you found Monkford and proved he was the driver. But he didn’t tell me how.” Or how he’d felt when he knew that the worthless piece of shit who’d left her mum dying on the roadside and just driven away had finally been caught. What it had felt like being in the same room with the bastard.

James looks supremely uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you about this. By rights, it should be your father.” He immediately shakes his head. “No, of course he wouldn’t want to talk about it. And of course... She was your mother. You have a right to know.”

There’s a lump suddenly in her throat, and hot tears are forcing themselves from behind her eyes. God, she should have listened to Tim and waited until he could come with her. She’d thought she’d done as much crying as is physically possible over her mum’s death, but... “Sorry,” she mutters, fumbling for a tissue.

James is in the chair next to her instead of opposite, faster than she’d imagined anyone could move. A hand rests on her upper arm as he says, tone gently matter-of-fact, “The canal walk’s just around the corner. It won’t be busy today, if you’d like some fresh air.” 

Oh, he’s kind. But then, coppers have to be, don’t they? All those grieving relatives and shocked victims – those that aren’t dead, anyway. It makes Lyn wonder what her dad’s like when he’s comforting someone. It always seemed, when she and Mark were kids, that her mum was the one hugging them when they were hurt, while her dad was sympathetic but matter–of–fact. _”It’s only a scratch. See? Hardly bleeding now. You’ll be running around in no time.”_

She dabs at her eyes, then blinks and takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. But thanks.” 

James instantly nods. “I’ll get us fresh coffees.”

Tactful, too, giving her a couple of minutes to pull herself together. Well, her dad would never keep him around if he wasn’t a decent bloke. And anyway, she’s seen the change in her father over the almost three years since he’s been back in Oxford. The grief weighs less heavily on him most of the time, and he’s even able to talk fondly of her mum, of the four of them as a family. And he looks, some of the time, even happy. Of course, some of it’s the effect of time passing, but she’s well aware that a lot of it’s down to the very polite, posh bloke who’s been his sergeant since he came back. And who, according to her dad, has made it his business to look after his inspector and anticipate his every need.

The very polite, posh bloke who’s sliding into the chair opposite again and pushing a fresh mug of coffee over to her. Made, she can tell at a glance, exactly to her preference. Copper, of course. He pays attention. It’s decent coffee, too. She’ll have to remember this place.

“How did I find Monkford? It was a complete fluke.” As if their conversation had never been interrupted, James resumes speaking. His fingers seem to be twitching as he grips his mug – needing a smoke, maybe? That’s the only issue she has about her dad spending so much time with James Hathaway: he smokes like a chimney, according to her father. He’s commented that he has to have his suits dry–cleaned more often these days because of the lingering smell of tobacco. 

She’s less bothered by the smell than by the thought of her dad inhaling so much second–hand smoke – but when she’d said something, her dad had laughed. _”You should’ve seen the nick – and just about anywhere – before all those smoke–free laws came in. Until the late eighties, you couldn’t walk into a room anywhere without having clouds of smoke in the air. If I was gonna get sick from passive smoking, it would’ve happened years ago.”_

It’s not that simple, of course, but she’d refrained from giving the standard lecture. He’s her dad, not a patient, and sometimes he just needs her to be his daughter.

She shakes herself into focus on what James is saying. “A manager at one of the local hotels contacted Inspector Lewis. A guest at the hotel had perpetrated what the manager was certain was petty fraud. The guest’s name was Simon Monkford.” He sets down his coffee. “I was assigned to investigate.”

Ah – because petty fraud only merits a sergeant, not an inspector? She nods, and then a thought occurs to her. “He gave his real name?”

The faintest hint of a smile crosses the sergeant’s face. “Monkford’s not a very clever conman, despite years of practice. No fake ID, no false address, and he didn’t even try to hide the evidence when I confronted him at the address he’d given.” There’s a hint of a scornful twist of a lip. “Easiest arrest I’ve ever made.” He leans closer, speaking more quietly. “It’s standard practice, when you make an arrest, to look into any criminal history the person may have. And Monkford had a lot. But there was a gap – not just in his criminal activity, but in any activity. He’d just dropped off the radar entirely for a period of five years. So I went to talk to his sister to try to fill in the blanks.”

Her dad’s never talked much about his work as a copper, so Lyn has no point of reference. Are all coppers this thorough, or is James just over–eager – out to impress his boss, or establish a track record for whenever he goes for promotion? “Would you always go that far?”

James shrugs. “Your father thought it wasn’t strictly necessary, but that was because we had a simultaneous murder investigation and he didn’t want me distracted. But I know he doesn’t like to have things left half–done, so…” He lifts a shoulder in a graceful shrug. “I went back to High Wycombe to see the sister. She told me that something had happened around five years earlier that left him very shaken. And she could remember the exact date.”

Abruptly, Lyn can’t breathe. It takes a moment or two, and then she manages to say, “The nineteenth of December 2002?”

James Hathaway nods. His expression appears completely neutral, until she sees the concern in his eyes. “All she knew, other than that, is that he’d been the getaway driver for a robbery. She had a feeling that he might have hit someone.”

“And, just like that, you knew he had?” How had James even known the date her mum died? She’s damn sure her dad wouldn’t have mentioned it. He never talks about that day, or those horrible, nightmarish days and weeks immediately afterwards.

It’s not as if she doesn’t understand. That day, that week, and all the days and weeks that followed until life slowly, inexorably, started to reshift into some semblance of normality – just a normality that no longer included Mum – was the very worst time of her life. She still has nightmares about getting that phone call, her dad sounding almost like a stranger, telling her to get on a train to London _now_ , and bring Mark with her. Now, sometimes, in the nightmares, it’s her dad who’s still and unmoving on that hospital bed, hooked up to machines – or it’s Tim. 

They can talk about how much they miss her mum. They can share memories, or wishes that she were here to see a significant event. But they can never talk about that day, none of them.

So, since her dad would never have told him about it, James must have looked up the details, or talked to someone who knew – Laura Hobson, maybe? She’s another friend Lyn wants to talk to, to find out how her dad’s really been coping since coming back to Oxford, and how he seems in the aftermath of Monkford’s sentencing. She’s meeting Laura later, for a drink – her dad, conveniently, has a community safety meeting to attend, on the Chief Super’s orders.

James had made it his business to find out, then. Curiosity? No. She’d bet that it was more about being informed to make sure that he didn’t accidentally put his foot in it, and to protect her dad from others who might open still–fresh wounds. Because what she’s heard so far, from her dad and from James, tells her that he sees his job of bagman as being her dad’s protector, in a way. Keeping the mundane and tiresome details off her dad’s desk, just as her dad did for Morse all those years, but also watching out for his well–being. Her dad’s occasionally mentioned James nagging him to eat at regular intervals, and encouraging a healthier diet. _”Him and his bloody quinoa and super–veggies, whatever they are when they’re at home. Gave in the other week when we were going over a case back at mine an’ let him cook some kind of casserole instead of just getting a takeaway. It was okay, but the cocky sod’d better not think he’s making a habit of it.”_

Yeah, definitely sees himself as a caretaker, and it’s become more than a habit. How else could he have heard that date and instantly thought of her mum? She would have, and of course her dad would have too, but how many other people – even close friends – would have immediately seen the coincidence of dates and recognised the possibility?

James hesitates. “My first thought was DI Lewis’s wife, yes. And then I reminded myself that it could be a complete coincidence. I had to do a lot of checking – and talk to Monkford himself – before I could be sure. Surprisingly, he admitted hitting a pedestrian on Oxford Street as soon as I asked. I’d say he was relieved to admit it at last. But then I had to verify that the victim was actually Mrs Lewis before I could do anything else.”

Which, she’d lay odds, hadn’t been anything like as easy as James just suggested. But he’d had to do it – not only for police procedure, but because, she knows without being told, he would never have said a word to her dad without being one hundred per cent certain. Why raise her dad’s hopes that the killer had been found if there was still a chance that this could have been a different hit and run, so it might not have been Monkford who killed her mum after all, or if there was no way of proving it? So he’d somehow found time to investigate and do whatever was needed to find proof while keeping it all secret from her dad – and being fully involved in a murder investigation, of course. God only knows what sort of hours he’d put in on the job while he was trying to do all that.

And that’s when she remembers her dad saying it had taken Hathaway a day after he’d known for certain to tell him. _”Probably didn’t know how to tell you_ , she’d suggested. 

_”Thought at first he was worried I’d knock the bastard’s head off his shoulders. Or maybe that I’d shoot the messenger. But I realised afterwards it wasn’t that. He was worried about me.”_

And that, almost as much as what James Hathaway did to find Monkford and prove him guilty, makes her want to hug the man – though he doesn’t seem like someone who’d be comfortable with being hugged. That’s a shame, because he also looks like someone who _needs_ a hug. He cares enough about her dad to worry about the fact that this development – the fact that his wife’s killer has been caught – would revive her dad’s pain all over again.

She’s not going to tell James what her dad said, or what she’s figured out from it. It’s not that it isn’t important, or that she’s not grateful. It’s that she knows he would brush it aside and be embarrassed, for one thing. And as well as that, she hasn’t failed to notice the things James _hasn’t_ said during this conversation. He hasn’t once talked about her dad in anything more than the very abstract. He hasn’t told her how her dad reacted to finding out about Monkford, about meeting him, or about his reactions to any part of the court process. Talking about his boss is clearly off–limits, even to his boss’s daughter – or, maybe, most of all to his boss’s daughter.

And she won’t ask. It’s comfort enough to know that James was with her dad all through that gut–wrenching process. She knows, because her dad told her, that James went to Monkford’s first court appearance with him, though he wasn’t at the sentencing – but then, she and Tim were with her dad then. 

“Thank you.” She reaches across and covers his hand. “If you hadn’t cared enough to put two and two together and do all that work… I hope you know how much it means to us.” She swallows. “My dad and me, my brother, everyone else who loved Mum. It won’t bring her back, but just knowing the scumbag didn’t get away with it… it means a lot.”

The sergeant’s head dips, and there’s a faint flush on what she can see of his neck. Clearly someone who finds it hard to be thanked. 

“I mean it, James. I’m so glad you’re my dad’s sergeant – and his friend.”

His eyes widen at that. “I’m not sure he’d think _friend_ is appropriate. I’m his direct subordinate, that’s all.”

It’s not all – far from it. Though perhaps her dad wouldn’t call James a friend – but from all she’s seen and heard, they’re closer, and look out for each other far more, than most people who call each other friends.

Lyn parts from James a few minutes later outside the coffee–shop. She was tempted to hug him, but his very self–contained body language, and the hands clasped, priestly–fashion, in front of his body reinforces her earlier impression that he wouldn’t welcome an embrace. Instead, she thanks him again for meeting her, and he’s formally polite in return.

Impulsively, she adds, “Come up to Manchester with Dad some time. You’d be very welcome.”

He blinks, but then the momentary flash of pleased surprise vanished, to be replaced with a politely non–committal expression. “That’s kind of you. Thank you.” And then he turns and walks away.

Interesting. If her guess is right, James Hathaway needs her father every bit as much as her dad needs James Hathaway.

* * *

It’s a relief to be driving home to Manchester the following morning. Of course it was lovely to spend time with her dad, but the meetings with James and Laura were emotionally draining. It was just as well her dad’s meeting ran late; if he’d got home when he’d originally planned, he’d have caught her puffy–eyed and subdued.

But, difficult though it was to talk about her mum’s death all over again, it’s helped. Not just knowing how Simon Monkford was caught, but that her dad has someone to watch over him and make sure he’s okay. Knowing that Laura sees her dad on the job pretty regularly, and that she makes a point of checking in on him aside from that. And knowing that Laura – a doctor, even if she works with the dead – thinks her dad is coping, emerging from the worst of his grief and learning to live again, rather than just existing. And, perhaps, he’ll finally be able to get some closure now. Just as she’s starting to.

Difficult though it’s been, a weight has lifted from her chest. She hasn’t just got answers to her questions about Monkford. She’s also had answers to what she’s been wondering about James Hathaway since her dad first started talking about him. And it’s such a relief to know that her dad has someone around for all those times when he might want someone to talk to, or just be quiet over a drink with, and the person he most wants to be with isn’t there any more. Will never be there again.

The phone clipped to her dashboard rings, and she leans forward to press the answer button. Tim’s reassuring, beloved voice comes through the speaker. “Hi, love. You on your way home?”

“Yeah, I’m on the M40. I left when Dad was going off to work. Traffic’s a bit shit, but I’d rather be on my way home than sitting around.”

“You all right?” Tim’s voice, even though she’s only hearing it through a small vent–mounted speaker, seems to surround her with his love and caring.

“I will be. It’s been… difficult.” She swallows. Now isn’t the time to get upset; she has more than two hours’ drive to get through yet. “But I’ll be home soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.” He’s off–duty today, and she’s never been more glad of that. “Big hug, followed by your favourite lunch, as soon as you get here.”

Lyn smiles. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Drive safely.” Tim blows a kiss down the phone, and Lyn grins, already anticipating their reunion.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **Original prompt from Perplexed:**
> 
>  
> 
> _We see Robbie in court at Simon Monkford's hearing, but we never get to see Lyn's reaction. I can't imagine Robbie told Lyn all the details. But she is her father's daughter, and I can't imagine she'd let that lie. I'd love a fic or some kind of art where she comes to Oxford specifically to corner James and get the real details on how he discovered Simon Monkford was her mother's killer._


End file.
